


Eating the Blame

by PrinceRoan



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Canon Related, Gen, Missing Scene, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceRoan/pseuds/PrinceRoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on 1x4 after Mr. Numbers is tasered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eating the Blame

The air on the lake is frigid and sharp, more so than it is in town, even in the forest and it makes Mr. Wrench's cheeks sting. He only really notices it when he looks up from the auger, which is drilling comfortably into the ice, sending vibrations through his whole body, and looks into the brightly lit afternoon; the lake in front of him is a white sheet set against banks of icy snow and thin, pitiful trees. He glances down at the machine in his hand when a particularly violent pulse shakes him and he can see water rise up and spill over the ice around the edges of the neatly cut hole he's made. He shuts the auger off and hefts it out, the metal gleaming wet and dripping. After setting the machine down, he stands over the perfectly circular hole in the ice and peers into it. He takes one last glance over the lake at the bareness and snow before taking a deep breath. When he turns around, his eyes are drawn down and he tilts his head. 

Laying on the ice is his partner, arms out at his sides, eyes closed. Flecks of ice decorate his dark hair, and he is very still. Flicking his eyes up from the body, he slowly traces one end of the tree line to the other, seeing nothing but bare trees and snow; Lester is gone. He walks over to the body on the ground and nudges it with his foot. Mr. Numbers just barely stirs, though his eye twitches. Mr. Wrench sighs and kneels down, nudging his partner again, but this time with his hand and a little more force. He glimpses a blistering red mark on Mr. Numbers neck and tilts his chin with one finger so that he can get a better look. Two angry red marks, like a vampire bite, colour his skin and Mr. Wrench holds back a snicker. 

He shakes Mr. Numbers again and this time his partner jolts awake and sits up. He doesn't bother paying too much attention but he sees Mr. Numbers lips moving quickly and waits for him to finish spewing whatever expletives make him feel better. He's standing over his partner now, hands in his pockets and Mr. Numbers is pushing himself up, gingerly touching the side of his neck where the taser mark is. 

 _Idiot._   He signs: "you let him go." 

Mr. Numbers eyes narrow and he mumbles something, the way he always does when he's probably saying something shitty and doesn't want Mr. Wrench to know. Mr. Wrench signs the same thing again and then points toward the treeline where Lester most likely ran off. He doesn't wait for Mr. Numbers to reply before he starts walking. His partner sidles up to his shoulder, still rubbing at his neck and swearing, so far as Mr. Wrench can tell when he bothers to glance at him. They find a clumsy trail of footsteps in the thicker banks of snow leading up to the road and Mr. Wrench pushes aside branches to facilitate his way when his partners arm slams into his chest and stops him. He looks at Mr. Numbers and then follows his gaze up to where the little man they were supposed to torture is speaking frantically with a police officer. He steps back a little. Lester is flailing his arms, puffs of his breath blowing out rapidly in exasperation and finally he clocks the policeman in the face. 

Mr. Wrench clicks his tongue, watching as the policeman cuffs their escapee and seats him in the back of his patrol car. As they drive off, Lester sees them and Mr. Wrench holds his gaze until the car is too far down the road. He steps forward and looks expectantly at Mr. Numbers. 

"Now what?" he signs. 

Mr. Numbers waves his hand at him and sighs. He nods at the car. "Christ," he mumbles, rubbing at his neck and looking at Mr. Wrench, he gestures with his hands as though holding a steering wheel of a car. "Drive." 

Mr. Wrench looks at the taser mark on Mr. Numbers neck and then at his face, he rolls his eyes.  _What an idiot_. He still can't quite believe that neurotic little man managed to slip a taser past Mr. Numbers and get him so good as to knock him out. Perhaps he was more resourceful than they had first thought. The car ride is uneventful and when they're stopped at a red light, Mr. Wrench looks at his partner. "Did he say it?" he gestures questioningly. 

Mr. Numbers nods and then shakes his head. He thinks for a moment and then signs back : "kind of, he said he didn't kill Sam, but 'some guy' did." 

"Some guy?" Mr. Wrench echoes with his hands. 

"'A man'," Mr. Numbers enunciates, shrugging. "I'm still going to kill the fucker for this," he adds, bitterly pulling the collar of his fur coat over the taser wound.

The light turns green and Mr. Wrench drives languidly down the road, considering what his partner has told him. At the next red light he turns to Mr. Numbers again. "What man?" he signs. 

Mr. Numbers throws his head back and then snaps it back into position to cock an exasperated look at his partner. "I don't fucking know," he signs wildly, "what man, what man?" he mockingly signs back, shaking his head. "Fuck if I know," he says finally, stroking his beard to calm himself down. 

The light turns green. Mr. Wrench ignores it and stares blankly at his partner. 

"What?" Mr. Numbers spits out when he can no longer stand the intense gaze. "What?!"

"Don't yell at me," Mr. Wrench signs, his eyes still intent on Mr. Numbers face.

An irritated tremor travels up Mr. Numbers spine. "Yell?" he says, tone biting. His partner looks on silently, waiting, sitting there in his stupid fucking cowboy coat with its fucking tassels. "YOU'RE FUCKING DEAF," he yells at the top of his lungs, right into Mr. Wrench's face. Nothing but an insistent blank stare answers him.

The light changes from green to yellow to red and the road is empty. Mr. Wrench keeps one hand lightly on the wheel and the other on his lap. He waits. 

Mr. Numbers sways back and forth in annoyance and a low growl sounds in his throat. He groans. "Fuck, fine," he snaps, rolling his eyes before sarcastically signing, "I'm sorry."  

Mr. Wrench nods once, returns his gaze to the road and when the light shines green drives. The rest of the ride back into town is silent and Mr. Wrench drives them to the bar, parking on the side of the road. Neither of them move to get out of the car. 

"What do we do?" Mr. Wrench signs, eyes following the pedestrians walking along the sidewalk. A mother with her son's wrist in her hand drags him along, though he protesting, and doesn't notice him drop his toy onto the ground. He shift his gaze to Mr. Numbers.

"They won't charge him," Mr. Numbers signs back, "not for that weak sucker punch." He looks out the window and looks at the bar, just another nondescript building in the freezing, shitty town of Bemidji. A short, chubby man exits the bar and stumbles a little, taking a quick look around to see if anybody noticed before continuing on his way into the parking lot and to his car. Mr. Numbers cracks a smile.

"Feel like joining our friend in jail for the night?" he signs with a grin, popping a brow up suggestively at his partner. 

Mr. Wrench just barely quirks a smile and gives Mr. Numbers a slow look over. "One drink first," he signs and drops his keys into his jacket pocket, "and I'll try to be gentle." 

"Yeah, yeah, you're buying," Mr. Numbers signs before pointing sharply at Mr. Wrench as they get out of the car, "and watch out for my nose, okay?" 

Mr. Wrench shakes his head and holds back a smile, shrugging at Mr. Numbers to let him know he's not personally responsible for anywhere his fist lands when he's beating him into the ground. He walks ahead of Mr. Numbers.

"Fucking dick," Mr. Numbers mutters under his breath, knowing he's going to end up with a bruise somewhere on his face. 

Turning back, Mr. Wrench raises his brows. "I heard that," he signs. He smiles quickly and turns to the bar, pointing at the beer tap to the bartender before sliding a few bills on the table. 

"You are literally _deaf_ ," Mr. Numbers says between his teeth, signing the last word in an excessively violent motion before rolling his eyes.

They end up having four or five drinks and when the cops come and drag them both out of the bar, broken glass and wood on the floor behind them, they share a glance and grin at each other before they're shoved into a patrol car. Lester is in for quite a surprise.


End file.
